


In Company of Thieves

by krakens



Series: operatives and enforcers [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:27:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24168823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krakens/pseuds/krakens
Summary: Their second job is a heist, but they're not stealing anything.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Gaby Teller
Series: operatives and enforcers [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/494704
Comments: 9
Kudos: 41





	In Company of Thieves

**ROME**

Her exit from the balcony is not graceful; the only thing that saves her from embarrassment is that Illya and Solo seem as caught off-guard by Waverly’s abrupt offer of employment as she is.

She excuses herself tersely under the pretense of letting them finish their drinks and follows Waverly back to his room, where he is still packing his things. (She’s not even sure how he _has_ so many things – the last time she’d come down here, the table in the sitting room had been covered in eighteen separate stacks of meticulously sorted papers. He’s organized to a fault, and on top of that seems to only need to read a thing once before he remembers it verbatim – he’s a difficult man to keep up with.)

“You might’ve asked me first,” she says by way of salutation, flopping down on a settee.

“Are you saying no?” he asks as he closes a suitcase.

She glowers for a second before responding. “You never tell me anything, is all. It made me look bad,” she says. He doesn’t say anything, just continues packing, and she lets out a huffy breath in irritation. “And maybe I _am_ saying no,” she says.

“You’re not saying no,” he says.

“I might be,” she snaps back. He can’t know. She doesn’t even know; he hasn’t given her any time to consider the prospect of working for him. Leaving the hotel room this morning, she had been certain she’d never see Illya or Solo again. She hasn’t finished processing the implications of _that_ , let alone of everything else.

When he’d recruited her, she’d had conditions. He’s seen to a few of her terms already. She’s here, in Rome, out of the Eastern Bloc. There’s that at least. But he’d also told her that these few days would be the last time she had to be Gaby Teller. The name weighs her down just as much as the Wall had.

“You promised me a _life_ ,” she says, sitting up to look at him. That was the deal. A new name. A fresh start. Another chance.

He latches his suitcase and looks over at her, meeting her eye line.

“You can still have that,” he says, and she looks away and out the window. He’s got a better view than she had, even though he’s only on the third floor. “You say the word. You want to build race cars? I’ve got a friend at Cooper who’d take you in a heartbeat. If that’s still too much excitement for you, I can put you on an airplane to America. You’ll settle down. Get a house with a yard.” _Just like your father did_ , he doesn’t say, but she still hears it.

She doesn’t appreciate being provoked; she won’t listen to this. She stands and opens the windowed doors that lead to the balcony, leaning her weight up against the railing as she looks out over the city.

He lets her cool off for a minute before joining her outside.

“If that’s honestly what you want, Gaby, I’ll cut you loose,” he says. “God knows you’ve already paid your dues. But believe me when I say that I think you could be _good_ at this. I’m not just blowing smoke.”

She sets her teeth together as she looks down at the people in the square. Of course she’s good at it; she’s been good at it since the day Waverly made contact. Her entire life has been a study in careful lies and cold deception. She never would have made it to twenty-six if she wasn’t good at this.

There is a right answer here, and she knows it. There is a choice that will guarantee her safety. It’s what any sane person would do. It’s what her father would want for her, flawed though he may have been. Settling down is the survivor’s decision.

But she also knows that she’s insatiable, and that mediocrity is no happy ending for her. Even winning a Grand Prix would be a paltry achievement compared to saving the world.

“Istanbul,” she says with only half the cadence of a question, just to try it on her tongue. “Istanbul, and then we’ll see.”

* * *

When she heads downstairs to call a taxi, she spots Illya in the lobby, leaning up against the counter with a preoccupied expression on his face. She draws his attention with a small wave. In a silent exchange of looks they agree to play the part of the happy young couple one last time as they check out.

“Oh,” the concierge sniffs as she looks at the number on the room key Illya surrenders. “ _You._ ”

Gaby quirks an eyebrow at Illya, who seems to know what the fuss is about. He slides her a signed cheque.

“The television set,” she complains.

“I know.”

“Six different vases,” she continues. “An _antique_ table lamp.”

“It is blank,” he says, offering her the cheque again.

She’s unimpressed. “I’ve got to get the manager,” she says, pushing the slip of paper back towards him. As she leaves to retrieve her superiors, Gaby turns to him for an explanation, eyebrows raised in question.

“I broke the television set,” he says tepidly.

“I can’t take you anywhere,” she sighs.

“Antique lamp? Was you,” he says, which is – fair, actually. She’s pretty sure a few of the vases were her, too.

“We’ll never be invited back,” she says instead, playing at a melodramatic lament. Out of the corner of her eye she sees him lean his head back in frustration. “Where will we honeymoon?”

He curses under his breath in Russian and she can’t help but laugh at him. She’d never say it aloud – but this ruse is too much fun for her own good. She’ll miss it, in Istanbul.

* * *

The hotel manager detains them while he sends a bellhop to the bank to make sure Illya’s cheque is good. It all takes hours, and they miss the flight that Waverly and Solo took to Turkey. Once the manager’s got reparations in hand, it’s just after midnight, and he quite politely puts them up for one last night in compensation for their troubles. They manage to make it to morning without breaking anything else.

The flight’s a little longer than the one between Berlin and Rome was, but the time seems to pass more quickly now than it did then. On their way to Rome, they’d been strangers, barely even tentative allies (it had only been days ago – at first she can’t remember how many, but she makes herself count them – only six days ago). Now, they manage to hold a conversation like friends might.

“You should teach me how to speak Russian,” she says, off hand, as the flight is preparing to descend. He goes quiet, a jarring disruption in the tentative rapport they were forming. “No?” she asks.

“It would be…” he begins, picking his words carefully. “An undertaking.”

She understands him: it’s a commitment, and what’s a commitment when neither of them knows where they’ll be in a week? They aren’t friends, not really. Glancing down at her nails (she’s finally got all the muck and grime out from under them, but it took half the night), she tries to think of a way to respond that will sound unaffected.

“I’m a wonderful student,” she says, like she’s only pretending to be offended.

“I would be teaching,” he counters.

“Oh,” she says, and it all goes silent between them for a few moments. She reconsiders him. “I don’t mind an undertaking,” she tries.

He offers her a smile, fleeting though it is. “Where to start?” he wonders aloud.

“How do you greet someone?” she says.

“ _Zdravstvuyte_ ,” he says.

She laughs. She can’t help it. “How am I supposed to say that?”

“You can say _privet_ ,” he offers.

“ _Privet,_ ” she parrots back. Now he’s laughing at her. “What?” she insists.

“We’ll give it work,” he promises.

* * *

**ISTANBUL**

The hotel Waverly is putting them up in for their stay is a converted Ottoman mansion with grounds that run right up to the Bosphorus. This time, they all have their own rooms, which is something of a relief – they arrive in Istanbul mid-morning, and Gaby spends most of the day by herself. The downtime is nice after days of chaos. She almost feels like a person again.

Outside, the sun dips lower in the sky and the heavy heat of late summer starts to let up. Gaby puts on the last of the outfits Illya had bought for her in West Berlin, a cropped top and loose-fitting shorts made of a matching bold-printed linen, grabs her sunglasses off the sideboard, and wanders down to the hotel pool.

She spends a few minutes catnapping on a chaise before trouble arrives.

“Come here often?” Solo asks from somewhere above her. She peers up at him, lifting her sunglasses just long enough to look him over.

“That depends,” she says as she lowers her sunglasses again.

“Oh?” he asks.

“If you buy me a drink, I might come here every day,” she says.

“A woman after my own heart,” he laughs, sitting down on the chaise adjacent to hers. It’s so low to the ground and his legs are so long that he looks gangly and uncomfortable, which is not a look particularly suited to him.

“What do you want?” she asks as she props herself up on one elbow, ruffles her already disheveled hair, and sets her sunglasses on the top of her head.

“Just checking in,” he says. “We weren’t sure the two of you were going to make it here.”

“We got held up,” she says.

“Peril told me,” he says with a glint of mischief in his eye that she doesn’t appreciate at all. “What all did you break?” Solo asks, suffusing a suggestive tone into the innocent words.

“Everything but the bed,” Gaby bites back. Solo’s responding expression is partway between surprise and wicked delight; she can’t help but feel like she’s gone up a level in his estimation.

“What a shame,” he says. She says nothing, which serves to dismiss the topic, and he eventually moves on. “Waverly’s having dinner with some head of state or another,” he says. “But he’d like us all to meet him in his room at seven sharp tomorrow morning.”

“And until then?”

“Whatever you want to do,” he says.

“I want a drink,” she reiterates.

“I think we can make that happen,” he says.

Before they set off, they try Illya’s door, but receive no response, so it’s just the two of them for the evening. If she’s a little disappointed, she tries not to let on.

* * *

After the sun sets, the temperature drops quite dramatically, and Solo buys her a cream-coloured trench coat from a hole-in-the-wall shop that isn’t nearly as chic as the boutiques he so prefers.

“I’m out of clothes,” she sighs, picking at the collar of the linen shirt she’s wearing. “I’ve got to send them out to be cleaned. Except the orange dress,” she says, a little regretful. It’d been her favorite, but now it’s speckled with stains of mud and blood. “That’s ruined.”

“We could buy you more,” he says, tying the coat’s belt for her, as if any knot she tied herself would not be fashionable enough.

“I hate shopping,” she says. “Besides, we’ve got work to do.”

“There’s always time to accessorize,” he says, swiping a scarf from a rack on their way out and arranging it around her neck.

“Enough,” she says, batting him away.

Once they’re back out on the streets, though, she’s got to admit she’s glad to have the extra warmth, and after she thanks him they fall into a contemplative silence. She’s only had the one drink, and it’s not enough to ease the unsteady tension between the two of them.

“Illya told me what happened with Uncle Rudi,” she says eventually, as they pause outside a cafe and wait for their order to come up, as if this is only pleasant small talk between two friends.

“For someone so surly and _Soviet_ , he’s got an awfully big mouth,” Solo mumbles, hands tucked into his pockets as he looks off down the street rather than at her.

Illya had looked her in the eyes; he’d been direct. She’d been sitting on a cold metal bunk somewhere in the bowels of the aircraft carrier a handful of minutes after they’d deployed the bomb and downed Victoria’s boat, still wearing a spare jumpsuit much too large for her, still wrapped in a blanket and halfway lost to world. He’d kneeled in front of her, his hands resting on her shoulders with an anchor’s weight.

_I have to tell you_ , he’d said, slow and purposeful, and that had brought her back to Earth. He’d told her about her father first; she’d already known. Alexander Vinciguerra had muttered it alongside a string of unsavory threats when he’d been dragging her into the garage.

Rudi was something of an afterthought, a guilty admission. He’d mentioned it, and that he’d had Solo, and a few other sparse but gruesome details. A soft _oh_ had been the only surprise she was able to muster up. It hadn’t seemed that important, in the grand scheme of things, Uncle Rudi being dead. The best of the von Trulsch family died years ago with her mother, and though Gaby was his favourite niece, the fondness had never run both ways.

“I’m glad he told me,” she says at length. “It’d be worse not knowing.”

“Hmm,” Solo says, retrieving their order and handing her cup to her. It’s a fine porcelain teacup and it’s too hot against her palms, but they’re standing in a corner of the crowded shop and she can’t set it down anywhere, so she ignores the hurt.

“I’m sorry,” she says. There’s no need for her to elaborate. He just shakes his head.

“Everything shakes out in the end, doesn’t it?” he asks, taking a sip of his coffee, which must still be as hot as hers is. She wonders if he burns his tongue on it.

“I suppose,” she says.

“I’m sorry about your uncle,” he adds after another moment passes.

“You shouldn’t be,” she says, raising her eyebrows as she looks down at her cup. “I always knew… something was wrong with him,” she manages. She doesn’t have many happy childhood memories. Her uncle’s many visits to the Teller household are certainly not among them. “The last time I saw him was at my mother’s funeral, when I was six. He told me it was my father’s fault she had died.” She gulps down the hot coffee and doesn’t look at Solo’s face to see his response, but she hears his noise of mild disgust.

“Well, it’s all in the past now,” he reiterates after he’s finished his coffee.

“Sure,” she agrees again, both sentiments more tepid than they were before. She looks at the dregs of her coffee while she swirls them in the bottom of the cup.

Just the future to look forward to, now.

* * *

Seven AM comes up faster than she was expecting it to. She’s always been a night owl by nature and mornings are better spent in bed than owning up to the day, in her opinion.

Still, she drags herself out from under her soft goose-feather stuffed covers and clomps her way down to Waverly’s room, still in her kelly green pyjamas. Everyone else is in his sitting room already, fully dressed.

“Can’t we do this at a reasonable hour?” she complains before Waverly gets the chance to scold her for being late.

“The civilized man’s day starts at six,” Waverly says.

“I’m neither,” Gaby says, but he won’t budge. She sits down on the sofa next to Solo, who has a plate of cheeses, olives, and halved tomatoes balanced on one knee. She swipes one of the tomatoes for herself.

“You had something for us?” Solo asks. “An _unpleasant_ something, if I recall.”

“Yes,” Waverly says. “I’d like you to break into a high-security vault.”

“That’s music to my ears, actually,” Solo says. “What are we stealing?”

“Nothing,” Waverly says.

“Sorry?” Solo asks after a beat.

“You’ll break in. You won’t take anything,” Waverly says.

“Sounds pointless,” Gaby says, taking an olive from Solo’s plate.

“Would I ask you to do something pointless?” Waverly asks her. She shrugs. Her trial run isn’t over yet, after all.

“I hope not. I don’t usually go to the effort of breaking into a place just to leave empty-handed,” Solo says. “I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

“Your reputation won’t be at stake here,” Waverly says. “If you do your job right nobody will know it was you at all.”

“No take _and_ no glory,” he says, heaving a melodramatic sigh.

“Can you stand the disappointment?” Waverly asks.

“I’ll manage,” he says, seemingly satisfied with having no explanation. Gaby lifts an eyebrow in his direction, but he only offers her another olive.

“I want to know why we’re doing this before I agree to it,” Gaby says.

“I was getting around to that,” Waverly says. She leans back and puts her feet up on the cocktail table. “The vault in question is owned by the Hazinedar family. They’re material suppliers – aluminum, titanium alloys, carbon fibre, optical…”

“Spacecraft things,” Solo says aside for Gaby’s benefit as Waverly drones on.

“They supply several notable space programs,” Waverly continues, indicating Solo and Illya in turn as if to tactfully hint at _which_ space programs he’s talking about, like it wasn’t obvious. Gaby knows enough to know Solo and Illya wouldn’t be here unless it benefited both their countries in some way or another. “And as such have many friends in high places.”

“They sound like the kind of people we’d be better off _not_ antagonizing,” Gaby says.

“You’re not wrong, but in this case we’ll be doing it for their benefit. Our intelligence is that next Friday – ten days from today – a privately contracted team of thieves will break into that vault to steal their prototypical technology.”

“But why not just stop the other thieves?” Gaby asks.

“We could foil their attempt,” Waverly says. “But whoever hired them would send another team eventually. If we break in first, the Hazinedars will realize they’re at threat and improve their security.”

“But then why not just _tell_ them someone’s after their things?”

“They don’t know we know they have a top-secret vault full of top-secret technology in the first place,” Waverly says.

“Spying is _so_ impolitic when you get caught doing it,” Solo says.

“All right,” Gaby says, resigned. “What have we got to do?”

“Solo and I are going to find ourselves a copy of the vault’s specifications,” Waverly says. “You and Kuryakin are going to a film premiere.”

“Oh?” Gaby asks, quirking an eyebrow.

“The family’s heir apparent, Meryem, will be attending tonight with her cousin Yasemin. Afterwards they’ll be meeting with a prospective new business partner. Follow them and identify the man if you can. He’ll likely be one of the hired thieves.”

“Sounds easy enough,” Gaby says, standing and stretching her back.

“You will need new dress,” Illya says from across the room. She starts at the sound of his voice – low and cold to match the slightly downturned corners of his mouth – and realizes belatedly that he hasn’t said a word all morning.

She watches as he stands and heads for the door, where he abruptly stops and turns back to them.

“Meet me downstairs in one hour,” he says before leaving.

The room is quiet for a moment after he goes.

“Peril’s in fine form today,” Solo comments, looking to Waverly as if he expects some kind of explanation. He just nods in agreement.

“I’ll take care of it,” Gaby says, following him out of the room.

* * *

Illya maintains his sour mood well into their shopping excursion. She tries on dress after dress; he dismisses each one after only a few seconds of unenthused consideration. With every minute that passes, she feels more certain that he’s cross with her for some reason.

The dress she has on now is made from bright saffron silk and trimmed down the sides in beadwork. It’s her favorite thing she’s tried on so far, and she decides that it’ll be the one she buys whether or not Illya likes it.

She hikes it up so she can walk properly (the heels impede her enough as it is) and walks back out to where he’s waiting.

“I like this one,” she announces before he has time to say anything. He glances up at her, looks her over one time, and then looks back to his newspaper.

“You will need gloves,” is all he says. She just about screams in response.

Instead, she manages to keep her head until she’s changed back into her clothes and they’ve paid for the dress. He offers to carry her shopping bags to the car for her and insists on driving, but is silent as they begin the short drive back to the hotel.

“Have I done something?” she asks.

“What?” he says, like she asked it out of thin air.

“You’re mad at me,” she says.

“I am not mad at you,” he says, sounding for his part rather flummoxed by her outburst. She sinks down into the passenger seat, hunching her shoulders up.

“Then what?” she asks, unconvinced. He makes no response. “You’re grumpy about _something_. You’ve been in a foul mood all day. What’s got you upset?”

She watches him as he tries to decide what to say. He grasps the steering wheel so tightly that his hands are white-knuckled. After a moment he taps his finger against the wheel.

“Nothing,” he says. “It is nothing.”

That’s that, then. She’s not stupid enough to believe him, but he has the resolve of a concrete wall. He won’t tell her if he’s already decided not to.

* * *

It takes her the rest of the afternoon to curl her hair, but it’s worth it to finally see a glint of approving recognition in Illya’s eyes (not that this is her primary motivating factor or even the most pressing one, but it is _nice_ ). A glint isn’t all that much, though, and he very pointedly spends the drive not looking at her.

When they get to the theater (a converted opera house which retains all its splendor) she stands on the steps in front of it, tugging her white gloves up so they don’t slouch.

“Do I look nice?” she asks, mostly to see if it flusters him. He spares her a contemplative glance, like he’s only just realized that she’s standing next to him at all.

“The colour suits you,” he says.

“Take a picture of me,” she says, motioning to his camera where it hangs around his neck. He picks it up, but hesitates.

“This is work,” he reminds her.

“You can spare one photograph,” she insists, stepping up ahead of him. He lifts the camera, considers the angle for a moment, and snaps the picture. “There,” she says as he rejoins her at her side. “Now we look like a nice young couple on holiday.”

“Is that what we are?” he asks, suddenly quite preoccupied with the camera lens.

“Who else would I be seeing a film with?” she asks as they enter the lobby. The show won’t start for some time and people mill around the place. Many tourists, Gaby thinks as she peruses the crowd. Everyone is bright and colourful and lovely. So is she, now. It’s hard to remember. Sometimes she still feels the grey of East Berlin’s grime and dust on her skin.

“Your cousin,” he suggests, clearly meaning the Hazinedar cousins whom they are here to observe. She tosses him a look over her shoulder anyway.

“You want to be my cousin?” she asks.

For a moment he grapples with a rebuttal. “No,” he settles on.

“That’s got to be them,” Gaby says, nodding towards the girls. They’re with the film’s director, a handsome man who’s greying at the temples, and the three of them together have quite the crowd of understrappers. Illya nods in agreement, hand curling around her elbow as he leads her away from the crowd and into the theater so they can take their seats.

Once the lights go down it’s cool and dark. She sinks into her seat and spares glances up at Illya every now and then. His eyes are trained on the Hazinedars in their private box. He’s tall enough that his hair catches light from the projector behind them, a flickering halo that she can’t help but stare at.

The whole film’s in Turkish. Gaby doesn’t understand a word of it, but enjoys it all the same.

* * *

While they watch the Hazinedar girls wait for their dinner date, they sit at an outdoor table on the rooftop terrace of an adjacent café and Illya teaches her how to count to ten in Russian.

Or, really, he _tries_ to teach her how to count to ten. The progress has been halting.

“ _Odin, dva, tri, chetri_ —”

“ _Chetyre_ ,” he corrects, still watching the Hazinedars through his camera lens.

“ _Cheteri._ ”

_“Chetyre._ ”

She huffs in irritation.

“You are doing well,” he insists.

“I can’t even count to five,” she says, holding out her hand so that he’ll give her the camera. He does.

Looking through the lens she has quite a clear view of the Hazinedars. Meryem, the older cousin, is arrestingly pretty, with a voluminous mess of curly hair swept into a flattering updo and bright hazel eyes offset by dark skin. Her younger cousin Yasemin is plainer in the face, but has a much more daring sense of style – a modern kind of girl, Gaby thinks.

“How long have we been here?” she sighs.

“One hour,” Illya says, taking the camera back from her. After a second, he says a few words in Russian – he’s probably trying to teach her how to say _one hour_ , but she’s not paying attention.

“Maybe he’s not coming,” she says.

“He will,” Illya says, focused on the scene below him.

Gaby leans forward on her elbows, flapping her long sleeves back and forth childishly. Illya lent her his suit jacket not long after they’d chosen the spot. It hangs too big around her shoulders, and she’s still cold. That on its own she could manage, but she’s also fairly useless here (Illya is perfectly capable of taking photographs on his own), and the combination rankles her.

Finally, he snaps a series of photos, takes a contemplative pause, and then snaps several more.

“Time to go home?” Gaby asks when he lowers the camera.

“Yes,” he agrees. “Time to go home.”

* * *

They get back before Waverly and Solo do, so Illya occupies his time with developing the photographs they took. Gaby strong-arms her way into his darkroom, where she doesn’t do much but take up space and get in his way.

“What’s this?” she says for the ninth time in five minutes, pointing at some piece of equipment or another. He explains briefly, and she doesn’t understand any more than she understood his previous explanations: it’s for developing photographs, somehow. “Do you take these everywhere you go?”

“When I'm working, yes,” he says.

“All I’ve got in my suitcases is clothing,” she says. “I don’t know where you find the space.”

“I do not have so many shoes,” he says, fiddling with one of the pieces of equipment. That’s hardly true. He’s got at least three pairs that she can think of off the top of her head. But she lets him have it anyway.

“What are you doing?” she asks. He begins to explain, but she stops him. “Tell me in Russian.”

“This will not help you understand,” he says, and whether he means photography or Russian is hard to say.

“I’d just like to listen to you,” she says.

He gives in after she prods him for a minute, and as he goes about the process of developing the photos she watches, elbows propped on the bathroom counter, and listens to him speak. At first his statements are succinct and flat, but eventually he’s just speaking, speaking.

“You’re not talking about photography anymore,” she says. He looks at her, impressed or amused.

“A story,” he admits.

“Is it a good one?” she asks.

“Of course,” he says.

“Hmph,” she hums softly, hoping this conveys her fond irritation properly. “I’m sorry to have missed it,” she says.

“Maybe another day I will tell you,” he says, holding up an undeveloped photo. “For now…” He crosses the small room to where he’s set up the chemical baths. “Count to ten.”


End file.
